The Poetry Teacher
by ThaliaofAvalon
Summary: I decided to write a poem about my poetry teacher in the style of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe at about two in the morning. The Raven is actually way longer than I remembered... Even with this, I had to cut out at least three stanzas.


**I decided to write a poem about my poetry teacher in the style of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe at about two in the morning.**

 **When he experienced family tragedies, every student of his brought in pop-tarts and we left them on his desk. Here it is.**

 ** _The Poetry teacher_**

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious mem'ry of forgotten dreams—

While I nodded, nearly sleeping, suddenly there came a creeping,

As of someone gently speaking, speaking softly in my ear.

"'My school-year's over," I muttered, "tapping at my memory—

Why will it not let me be?"

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the heat of July;

And each softly blowing breeze wrought its ghost upon my skin.

Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

From my dreams surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost school-year—

For the rare and genius teacher whom his parents name David—

In my mind, forever here.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each paper poem

Pained me—filled me with an awful sadness never felt before;

So that now, to still the weeping of my heart, I lay repeating

"'Tis my school-year, entreating entrance to my waking hours—

Why my school-year, entreating entrance to my waking hours?—

I miss my teacher even more."

Presently my soul grew sadder; hesitating then no longer,

"Why," asked I, "must I forsake you, teacher, your jokes and sarcastic

Comments no-one else did understand, so ironic'lly mutt'ring,

And so sadly you came teaching, teaching even through your grief,

That I must make sure you know I heard you, saw you standing there—

For us, there and always there.

I saw you hold back tears, peering at the pop-tarts, smiling, feeling,

Finding, knowing things few teachers ever dared to dream before:

Your students love you; you have changed us all. Each one left a token,

And there was not one word there spoken, and we wish you only knew,

This I whispered, and I doubt you ever heard me say, "We care!"—

Meaning that and nothing less.

While within my half-sleep turning, I felt this within me burning:

A poem from the author whose name you bear and life relive.

"Surely," said I, "surely I may sleep at last, my inner poet?

Let me see, then, what have I missed? Ah, this poem I must write—

Let my mind be still a moment and my laptop I'll take up,

Transcribe the poem in my mind!"

It seems how long this poem was, I had forgotten. I doubt you'll read,

This little poem, styled Raven by the Edgar long before;

You taught and made us who we are, inspired me to be a poet;

So for your sake I'll write a poem in that poet's style—

That poet whose name you bear as such a poetry teacher—

Thee, our loyal teacher.

Though I believe you'll never read my poem that for you I wrote,

Know that for your class, we were listening – list'ning to each word.

"You all are cheaper than therapy," you joked, and spoke to us of

Funny tales and useful lessons, all your problems so we would learn—

Joking that we only think of pop-tarts, and never of your words.

Look to the truth on your desk.

The pop-tarts mean that we were list'ning, a joke, a thought, to make you

Smile; the truth, to tell we care. We see you going through hard times –

(And your class has helped us through our own) and we will all stand by you

In the best way we can think of – the way that you stood by us too—

Jokes and sarcasm helped us to laugh away all of our problems;

We hope the same goes for you.

And so upon that morning you returned, we placed a castle of

Pop-tarts on your desk – a secret sign that we will stand by you.

Nothing farther then we uttered—not a whisper then we muttered—

Till now; the words swim across the page as it approaches dawn—

On the morrow I won't see you, as my school-year is over –

This poem you'll never read.

Somehow you managed to teach us all, even in our madness,

About meter, Alexander Pope who lived in his own cave,

Shakespearean sonnets, rondolets and villanelles. Every

Question on a quiz was number five, easy hints for harder

Questions. There was no chance of zoning out in your classroom. Bored

Was something never felt.

Thus I'd sit engaged in guessing which syllable I was stressing,

Finding words which I could rhyme with burn and fire and with rain,

Ending half of the lines with 'ing', my head frustrated reclining

On my arms for hours, hating seven syllable lines that

Had to be in iambic meter with the bright light gloating o'er;

Pencils press, ah, nevermore!

Be these words our sign of parting, our dear friend! I write, and smiling,

Of good times in years past. We'll pass you in the hallways, but it won't

Be the same without you. We'll miss you in all our classes this year!

We'll miss your dry sense of humor, we'll miss your stories, the way

You really care, and so this poem is for you, our teacher;

Quoth your students, "Ever yours."


End file.
